From the oven, I pulled a peach cobbler that bubbled and popped beautifully. Outside, spring had come calling to resurrect what winter had lulled to sleep. The trees and shrubs were a lovely green and nearly in full bloom.
I took off my apron and watched two birds flitting outside the window, communicating in their unique way. This was a few years ago, but I remember it all so clearly.
I should have been happy and content, but my heart was burdened, and the heavy hand of grief squeezed it like a giant vise. It was hard to breathe. And the tears?
They had poured forth like a rushing waterfall for days, then left me so dry that no amount of water could quench my thirst.
Our good friend, Gavin MacLeod, had died. He was a man with an abundance of enthusiastic love for Jesus, America, his friends, and his family.
Gavin was one of several people who put an arm around my shoulders and helped guide me through the world of Hollywood television, which was as unfamiliar to this mountain girl as Paris was to the American boys who helped liberate it during World War II.
The moment he slung open the door of his Palm Springs condo, bellowed out a welcome, then gathered me up in his massive arms, I knew I had found a lifelong friend. Tink knew Gavin, of course, from his role as Murray on The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Whenever possible, the young Tink would accompany his father and stepmother, Mary, to the Radford lot for Friday night tapings.
While it’s rare for a television actor to star in more than one hit series, Gavin went on to play Captain Stubing on The Love Boat for nine seasons.
“I was so blessed,” he would thunder whenever recalling the opportunity to be part of two memorable television series.
The sound of the peach cobbler had quieted when the phone next to the stove rang.
“I’ll get it,” I hollered upstairs to Tink.
“Hello, Ronda?”
The timid, soft voice of Patti, Gavin’s wife, traveled thousands of miles from the California desert to our mountains. We chatted for a bit, the lumps in our throats making conversation difficult.
Finally, Patti gathered herself and asked for our address so she could send an invitation to the funeral. Then she drew a deep breath and said, “It would mean so much to me if John (Tink) would speak at the service. Do you think it’s possible?”
“He would LOVE it!” I replied enthusiastically.
Tink does not like to be noticed.
John Tinker is 'umble, as mountain people say.
When he heard that I had obligated him, he turned white. He protested. He fretted. But when all was said and done, he was powerfully wonderful.
Gavin cried a lot. His heart was so tender that whether the story was joyful or heartbreaking, he cried.
At the funeral, his best friend, Pat Boone, told how they and their wives had gone to see Saving Private Ryan.
When the credits rolled, Gavin jumped to his feet, applauding and sobbing like a baby.
Once, at lunch in Palm Springs, Tink said, “Tell Gavin and Patti about your Uncle Oscar and Aunt Fairy.”
Halfway through the story, Gavin’s shirt was soaked with tears. When he heard the triumphant ending, he buried his face in his hands and cried even harder.
How could you not love a man like that?
Pat Boone then told a remarkable story about Patti’s steadfast faith. Gavin, some 25 years earlier, had left Patti.
“She firmly believed he would come home. She got down on her knees every day and prayed.”
Pat paused dramatically, looking out at the audience.
“Five years after he left, the doorbell rang. When Patti answered the door, there stood Gavin. ‘I’ve come home.’”
With complete composure, Patti replied, “Your dinner is waiting.”
Since Gavin wasn’t there, I cried for him.
Ronda Rich is the bestselling author of the new book, A Merry Chatty Christmas.